The Death of Richard Braintree
by EternalFlare
Summary: Since we aren't exactly TOLD what happens to him, this is my take on the final moments of Richard Braintree. Rated M for language and violence.


The Death of Richard Braintree

by EternalFlare

He had always had tendencies to be violent. Always had the tendency to do things out of instinct, rather than rational thought. Some called him insane — some feared him, some admired him, and some just plain hated him. Yet there was one thing you could agree on about Richard Braintree:

You wouldn't soon forget him.

The gun-toting middle-aged man with the Venus de Milo upon his tie, his face lined wrinkles and his hair greying. That stocky but healthy guy, relatively tall and somewhat muscular. By all appearences, you'd think he was a normal man — but appearances can fool all. Within Richard Braintree was a vicious streak, and, in rage, he'd managed to down very strong men. And his greatest accomplishment in a fit of rage had to be when he had skinned that stalker — what was his name . . . Mike.

_Fucking creepy little bastard_, Braintree thought as he ascended the stairs, those abominably long stairs that turned sharply right when one reached the top of a flight. He could see the ceiling, but not much else.

Speaking of Mike, Richard began to wonder about Joseph Schreiber — which inevitably led him to pondering the plight of Henry Townshend. Richard wasn't immune to pity, because that was one among several thoughts he had at the thought of young Townshend. The guy seemed docile, good work ethic and morals. But Richard had noted the pistol in his back pocket, and had heard the guy battling those freaky monkeys with a steel pipe, about the time he entered the room with the weird man stuck in the ground.

_Good boy_, he thought. The strong survive, after all — you don't win if you don't fight. Life had tought him that lesson.

It was then that Braintree remembered: in a fight with those monkeys, he had used up five bullets. He was running pretty low, but he was no pussy when it came to fighting melee. He was confident in his ability to dispatch those damned monkeys with his bare hands, let alone a club or knife. Hell, he could swing the revolver itself!

Snapping his gun's chamber out, he slid five fresh bullets inside and closed the chamber. Cocking it, he winced. Once more, he came to the top of the stairs, and had to rest against the railing. Age had treated him well, but he'd been unable to escape a bad heart. As much as he loved the thrill of a fight, loved putting people in check, he had to face facts —

He was getting too old for it.

'Damn,' he hissed through gritted teeth. That customary chest pain that came with strenuous activity, that feeling of suffocation, that spasm in his left hand — he hated it all. He had decided a long time ago that he wouldn't let nature claim him. He'd end it on his own terms: his good ol' Colt's barrel inserted in his mouth, with one round in the chamber. But the day hadn't come yet. He was still healthy, for a man his age.

_Where the fuck did that kid go?_, he thought as he caught his breath. Braintree had chased that boy all the way to this point, but no kid could possibly ascend this flight of stairs! It was huge, as well as impossible — Richard knew this area well, and nothing of such design existed in Ashfield. Step by step, he was getting closer to figuring it out, but only if his heart lasted long enough.

In truth, he meant the boy no harm — he had been blowing smoke, trying to break the kid and get some answers; but the kid, though not brave enough to face a man with a loaded revolver, was not dumb enough to stick around. He'd bolted, and by some miracle, Richard had found his way to the stairway. Sure, it'd been dangerous (he saw no sign of those monsters hurting the kid, which was strange, as the kid had to have bumped into one or two), but he was hoping that it'd yield results.

Finally, after about seven minutes of climbing, Richard came to the top, for he saw no more stairs. He couldn't reach up and touch the ceiling, but he could see it perfectly. Cockily, he stroked his revolver handle as he approached a familiar door.

_207 . . . what the hell?_ Richard gripped the knob, about to turn it, when he heard a laugh, and a call of 'Richard Braintree!'

Spinning around, Richard saw a familiar face, a face he couldn't quite recognise — but a face he knew wasn't friendly. In one moment, Richard brought the revolver barrel to eye level, staring down the sights that were positioned on the man's head. A man in a blue coat, armed with a pipe.

'Who are you?' he asked, finger on the trigger, about to propel a bullet through this man's head. He'd never quite _killed_ someone, but he'd had thoughts about it, and always knew that if push came to shove, he'd do it without a second thought.

The man had a gun too, however.

And this he raised.

Richard didn't think as he pulled the trigger, hoping to God that his trigger-finger was quicker than the man's — fortunately, it was, and the man, though shot straight in the head, just fell to his knees and stood once more. Another shot Richard fired, hitting the man in his left eye. The coated man looked up, growling, before he covered it with his hand — when his hand moved, the eye was back.

One more shot from Richard, then another, and finally he fired until the gun was empty. This was no man. Nothing could kill him! His fear at maximum, Richard let out a terrified shriek that echoed through the whole stairway, his mind racing as he, though skeptical, opened the room to his apartment.

Inside was basically the same, his favourite red chair in the centre, just the way he liked it. Pulling out six bullets in his reserve speed-loader, he loaded his gun and threw the loader away, officially out of ammo. It was then that he noticed the kid in the corner, looking at him with an emotionless gaze. If it wasn't a kid, Richard would have asked for his help — but no kid could stand against . . . this! This . . . man, who no bullet could bring down. Never had Richard seen anything like it, and he knew he was in trouble.

The door swung open behind him.

Richard, upon turning around, instantly recognised the man. It was the kid — they were the same person! Green eyes, dirty blonde hair, same face!

'H-how!' Richard gasped as the man seized his arms and shoved him backward. He found himself landing in his red chair, arms limp upon the arms of the chair. He almost moved his revolver up, but suddenly the clamps snared his arms. Fear soaked his whole psyche, and he frantically tried to shoot.

The man ripped the gun from his hand and threw it aside, clearly despising Braintree with passion. Richard had never felt so helpless, so _fucking_ helpless! He knew how Mike had felt, naked, bloody, with eyes upon him, piercing him, judging him. It didn't feel good.

He then turned to the kid. That kid and the man were the same . . . the kid . . . was the punk always hanging around 302 . . .

. . . then so was the man!

Richard's lip quivered in fear as the man gazed at him, then walked behind the chair, clicking things together and—

Pain.

Dear _God_, the pain! Excruciating pain through his whole body, like internal fire circulating through his bloodstream! He was being fucking electrocuted! Yet, how the Hell was it possible!? There was no apparatus to supply the electricity, no machinery to transfer it, and no outlet there to fuel the non-existent apparatus!

No more thought did Richard have on the matter, only feeling the pain as his body fried. He was hot, burning, all over, with no way to stop it. He was shaking nonstop, half because he was holding onto the hope of maybe disconnecting the machinery, or breaking his bonds — and half because he couldn't _stop_.

Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, hope rekindled.

From through the door, he saw that Henry Townshend run inside, in horror at what he was seeing. The young man ran up to him, frantically looking for some way to stop the execution — he reached for one of the bonds.

Richard, over the ringing in his own ears and the sizzle of his own flesh, heard the nasty shock that Townshend received for his heroism, and could read the hopelessness on the man's face.

_Schreiber died . . . Townshend . . . that guy might be after him too . . . I have . . . to warn him . . . he doesn't deserve to die . . . he's too young, he has too much to live for . . ._

Townshend looked to the kid, and spurred another thought of Richard's.

_He tried to warn me . . . but I passed it off as foolishness . . . come on, Richard, damnit! Speak to him! Do something, tell him!_

As hard as it was, Richard motivated his vocal cords to speak. 'K-k-k-k-k-kid?' he stammered, yelping several times. 'T-t-t-t-t-that's n-n-no kid!'

_It had to that guy with the numbers . . . what number was he? I forget is name . . ._

'It's the 1-1-1-2-1 m-m-man!' Richard, finally having relayed his final ounce of information to the man before him, slumped down, allowing himself to die. He'd done his best. The rest was in Townshend's hands.

—_The End_


End file.
